Bowl of Lemons on the Persian Rug
by Butterflies in Glass
Summary: S.H.I.E.L.D. is an organization of spies, assassins, and scientists, not detectives. After a string of murders with ties to a new global threat, FBI Agent Ariel Novak is outsourced the case. With the promotion benefits involved, she can't find it in herself to complain. OC.
1. Chapter 1

So, I wrote an OC story. I'm a little ashamed of myself because I don't know whether or not anyone will read it, but so many other people are doing it that I sort of just made up my own character without any real need.

Anyway! This is pairingless because I feel like the story will be more interesting if she has a friendship based chemistry with everyone rather than a romantic based chemistry with one person. I mean, if someone wants a pairing, suggest it, and if I get enough I'll write it in. I know it's under the Tony category right now, but that's for science reasons.

Disclaimer: don't own anything that you recognize.

.

**One. **

Like everything significant in Ariel Novak's post-high school life, her meeting with the Avengers was caused a death, and began with a computer mishap.

"I'm the detective on this case, I have clearance to enter," she said again, trying to get it through the idiot security guard's head that identification programs were not impervious to glitches. "You have my ID _in your hand_."

The guard, unfortunately, wasn't budging. "The swipe didn't read your ID as valid," he said and she gripped her sides tighter in annoyance. With her hands on her hips, she knew she looked more like an irritated college student than an experienced FBI agent, but this guy was running down her already thin patience. "I'm sorry, miss, I cannot let you through."

"Look," she said, staring him down the way she used to stare down new recruits, but he remained unaffected, "there is a murdered man's corpse rotting its way onto a floor right now, and unless I get in to investigate—"

"Your ID was not—"

"Agent Novak?"

Ariel turned around, and found a very annoyed looking redheaded woman that looked about her age that she vaguely recognized as the Black Widow person from the news. "Yes?" she said, ignoring the security guard now, even though it was clear he wanted to say something.

The woman took a step closer. "You're being temporarily transferred to a new division by order of Agent Hamilton," she said, holding out a manila folder. As Ariel accepted it and flipped it open, the other woman continued, "You will find the official transcripts in there and a temporary identification card, as well as a documented synopsis of your new case."

She looked up, bewildered. "New case?" she repeated. "I'm in the middle of—okay, well, _trying _to get into the middle of—a case right now, and you're saying that Hamilton is pulling me?"

As if this day couldn't get any worse. "Yes," the woman answered simply. "Now I have to ask you to come with me, Agent Novak."

"Why didn't he call me?" she said, and behind her the stupid security guard went, "Oh! It's working! Clearance to enter, miss."

Oh, naturally. "This came through on a fax, he is unable to use his phone at this time."

"If I'm not working on this case, then who is?" she asked, double checking to make sure her boss' signature was authentic, reluctant to give it up so easily. It gave her reason to stick around in New York for a while, and as much as she loved her fiancé, she hadn't been back to her home city in five years.

"Agent David Marlow," she said, and Ariel felt her mood, if possible, plummet even further. Dave was trying hard to get the promotion supposedly opening up to her, and didn't bother to hide it either. "Are you coming?"

_I hope the computer glitches again_, she thought as she answered, "Yes, I'm coming, Agent, um—"

"Natasha Romanoff."

Ariel nodded, not sure what else to do, and followed Agent Romanoff to a rather unremarkable Honda and slid into the passenger's seat, not quite sure what she was expecting. The other woman took a seat behind the wheel and flicked the car into drive. She said, "So, do I get a debriefing, or just sit here quietly?"

"You'll be debriefed when we get to HQ," she said, which was a non-answer that Ariel took to mean that she should shut up and wait.

The drive was fifteen minutes, short by all things considered, but felt ages longer. Ariel and silence didn't mix, and the car felt stuffy despite the air conditioning. She flipped through the manila folder, trying to glean what she could and finding little, which was frustrating because she liked going into things with having at least an _idea_ of what was going on. The transcripts told her that she was being transferred to the government agency Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division, which everyone knew about but was never sure was real or not, but other than that they spit back all the objective information she already knew: D.O.B., hometown, education, service record, age, ethnicity, religion. The synopses of the case only said that Frank Caraway, a S.H.I.E.L.D. veteran, had been murdered in his home with possible ties to a new (unnamed) global threat, and the basics that went a long with it.

When Agent Romanoff finally parked, it was in front of a building as unremarkable as the car. Considering that it was on the route she used to take to high school, she must've passed it every day for years and never looked twice. She followed the other woman inside, and the lobby was deceptively quiet, too. As she walked, she pulled her new ID from the folder so she could flash it in front of the security guard, who was a considerably better person than the first one because he nodded them entrance into the elevator, leading to another uncomfortably silent ride.

"Follow me," she told her as the elevator doors open, and the atmosphere changed from awkward and silent to hectic and loud. Ariel did as she was told, weaving her way through the rushing agents in their S.H.I.E.L.D. uniforms that looks much more comfortable than the business clothes she was wearing. When they reached a surprisingly plain (in comparison to the metal and plastic everywhere) wooden door, Agent Romanoff held down the button of an intercom and said, "I've got Novak, Fury."

"_Let her in, Widow._"

There was the distinct sound of the door unlocking and Agent Romanoff took a step back, arms folded behind her, which was a pretty good indication that she was supposed to let herself in. With a mumbled, "Thank you" because she didn't know what else to say, she pushed open the door and entered.

The room was emptier than she expected, with white walls and big windows and touch screen computer monitors instead of pictures placed throughout the room, currently displaying colorful backgrounds of tropical fish like a doctor's office. There was a small-ish oval table in middle, covered in short stacks of paper and evidently replacing the need for a desk. At the end furthest from her sat a man, head down as he scribbled something on a slip of paper. Without meaning to, she straightened her posture to military acceptable and waited for instruction.

After a solid moment of nothing, the man said, "You can sit, you know. I don't bite." She sits and he looks up, putting his pen down. "Do you know who I am, Agent Novak?"

"Nicolas Fury," she answered, thinking back to the second signature on her transcript, the one next to her boss, "head of the agency S.H.I.E.L.D."

As he nodded, her only thought was, _God, do any of them know how to smile?_ "I'm assuming Romanoff gave you no information?"

"All she told me was that I was temporarily transferred to work on a new case and I'd be debriefed here."

Fury took another, considerably thicker folder off of a pile next to him and slid it down the table to her. "Your file only gave base information on one of the agents killed," he said and she looked up with sharpened interest. By complete accident, catching serial killers had become something of a specialty of hers.

"How many?" she asked.

"Four," he answered, "and we think there might be a connection other than their occupation, which is why we decided to outsource to the FBI."

"There's no one who can do the job here, sir?"

"I have spies, Novak, not detectives." He folded his arms, and added, "It's not unusual for an FBI agent to have a service record, and you're one of three with a perfect success rate, all of which George Hamilton recommended. Do you know why I chose you?"

_Perfect success rate. _Her, Marlow, and Kips, then. But—wait, Marlow was an idiot, so choosing her made sense, Kips had been an agent for twenty-two years, and her only five, so why? She sifted through her head what little she knew, and came up with the blank spot after Concentration: on the bizarrely short Caraway file.

"Caraway did something with astrophysics, didn't he?" she said. "But I finished my senior year online when I was in Afghanistan."

"But you did your first two on campus, and it's still a degree," Fury answered. "The Ivy League education level was just the added bonus. He focused on radio astronomy and astrochemistry, but your concentration on aerospace engineering was the closest we could get. You were a lucky find, basically."

Lucky find. She hadn't gotten that since her first serial killer case was accidently shoved on her at twenty-two. "Were any of the others involved in astrophysics, sir?"

"Most members of S.H.I.E.L.D. who joined before last May are in one way or another," he said, and Ariel briefly thought of Mark, who was probably sitting at home waiting to hear from here and _maybe _she should turn this down, "so that isn't usual. Any narrowing down needs to be done by a professional, and an aerospace engineer FBI detective sounds pretty good. I spoke to Stark and he agreed to help look into possible connections, but he's an inventor, not an investigator."

"Stark? As in Tony Stark?" she said, surprised even though she knew he was part of the Avengers, and Fury nodded. "He knows astrophysics?"

Something told her that she wasn't the only one who didn't know this, because he said, "Apparently if it's science, Stark knows it. Learned it in a day about four months ago. Do you agree to cooperate?"

With hesitation she answered, "Yes, sir," and felt guilty because she promised Mark that she wouldn't be in New York for more than a week, and if the possible murderer counted as a "global threat" she didn't think she'd been done in seven days.

"Good," Fury said. "You'll be working closely with the Avengers because of the nature of the assignment. Like the rest of us, they can't solve a murder case, but they can deal with the murderer when they need to. You have military experience, so I know you can defend yourself, but we don't know how dangerous this person is yet. Romanoff and Barton will meet you in the lobby. Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D., Agent Novak."

He looked back down and she knew the conversation was over. Though she was still bursting with questions, Ariel stood. With a last, "Yes, sir," she let herself out. Then she retraced her route and got herself to the elevators, where she took a considerably more relaxed ride down than she had up. Since she was eighteen, she'd stared to the barrel of a gun more times than she could count and had dealt with six serial killers, fifty-two dangerous criminals, and sixty-one murders of passion. But even with a record of that, there was something about Agent Romanoff that intimidated her. Maybe it was the lack of smile, or that she knew the woman could probably kill her before she was able to draw her gun, but whatever it was, it put her on edge.

She just hoped that the rest of them weren't like that.

Then the elevator stopped, the doors slid open, and she got a look at the Agent Barton, who was staring at Romanoff with exasperation. Immediately she knew that wasn't going to be the case. The two looked up when she exited, and Barton greeted her with, "Hey, Ariel Novak, right?"

"Yeah," she answered, and shook his hand. "Nice to meet you, Agent Barton."

"You too," he said. "And drop the Agent, sounds too formal. I'm taking it you agreed?" She nodded. "Right, c'mon, Nat and I are bringing you to your temporary housing for the next…undesignated period time."

The hotel on Wall Street had a max stay limit of a week, and she felt her heart sink a little. She picked it because it was cheap by New York standards, under three hundred, but finding another one probably meant a jack upped price. But for now she didn't mention that, following them back out to the same car and now that she wasn't confused as hell, her mind supplied her with the information that Hondas were one of the mostly commonly driven cards in New York, so it made sense.

But then she got into the back seat and was instantly confused again because the carry-on travel bag she bought for convenience's sake was next to her. "Um," she said, "why's this here?"

Her and Romanoff's eyes connected in the review mirror, and the other woman shook her head. "Typical Fury," she said, putting the car in drive. "I'm taking it that he _didn't _tell you you're living situations are getting transferred to Avengers Tower because you're part of the team until the case is finished?"

"He neglected to mention that."

"Yeah," Barton said. "Since this counts as a high profile threat, and you're working as a detective on the case, living on your own in a hotel room is considered a bad idea. Ex-soldier or not, since you aren't an official S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, you count as a civilian."

"Civilian?" she said, half-annoyed, half-unsurprised, and she wondered why she wasn't offended. "I've been dealing with dangerous peoples for nine years."

He shrugged. "Doesn't mean anything. And you'll be staying on the 'guest' floor, so you won't suffer from a complete invasion of privacy."

Well, there was always that, she guessed. She had to contact Mark, for one, and calling her fiancé in front of other people felt unprofessional and a little embarrassing. "Anything else I should get a head's up about?" she asked.

Romanoff answered, "Tony has an AI installed, so JARVIS might talk to you sometimes, especially since you'll be given access codes to the labs."

"If you drop any references in front of Steve, he won't understand them," Barton added. "Bruce is kind of an awkward snowflake, Tony can be pretty obnoxious, and at the moment Thor isn't there and he kind of talks like he's from a Shakespearean play, so you may or may not meet him. Oh, and I guess one of us'll explain that later. Am I missing anything, Natasha?"

"Not that I can think of," she said, and Avengers Tower came into view. Sure, she hadn't been to New York since she joined the FBI five years ago, but it was pretty obvious. "Actually, Tony's probably installed JARVIS the ability to recognize your S.H.I.E.L.D. ID, so just flash it at the door and you can get through."

Though it took longer that it probably would've anywhere other than Manhattan, Romanoff pulled into the narrow parking lot that sat adjacent to the building, and Ariel was _way _more okay with this whole thing than was probably reasonable. And since Orlando was on the same time zone, she couldn't blame jetlag kicking in either.

To double check, the other agents made her show her ID at the door, and like they said, there was there came the unlocking buzz and she pushed it open. Barton hit the up button for the elevator and told her, "The others—or at least most of them—are probably the fifth floor, which is kind of like the common area."

"Right," she said, mentally cataloging it along with the number of every hotel room and Princeton dorm she'd ever stayed in.

The elevator shot them up faster than the S.H.I.E.L.D. one, and about a moment after entering, it dinged and slid open to a short hallway and the sound of men talking. She followed the other two out, squashing down the sudden nervousness that made no sense because she'd always been good with meeting people, which was one of the reasons she qualified for becoming a homicide detective in the first place.

"We've got the girl," Barton said as they entered the room, alerting the three men who stood around talking. "Novak, this is Bruce Banner, Steve Rogers, and—"

"She knows who I," Stark cut in, and looked way too satisfied for some reason. "I read your undergrad thesis paper on quantum mechanics in relation to space travel, and it was pretty good considering it was written by an eighteen-year-old."

"How'd you—" She began, then stopped. "Oh. I cited one of your research essays on nuclear energy, didn't I?"

"Yup," he answered, and held out his hand. "Tony Stark."

They shook. "Ariel Novak," she said. "Nice to meet you."

"Ariel the detective. So do I call you Disney or Watson?"

"Bruce Banner," said another man who she recognized from the news before she could answer, and she really wished she'd been given their files since evidently they'd seen hers. And then some.

Immediately following his introduction, the guy she was pretty sure was Captain America or whatever his alias was said, "Steve Rogers. You're head of the murder investigation, right?"

"Yeah," she answered. "When can I get started?"

"Later today," Romanoff said. "You should drop off your stuff downstairs first."

"Okay. What floor? And can I make a phone call first?"

Stark said, "Seventh and yeah, sure, do whatever."

Feeling awkward and out of place wasn't something she was used to, and she had a feeling there was something wrong with being more uncomfortable in an air conditioned New York apartment than she had in Prague only four months ago when she couldn't understand a thing anyone was saying. She gave a smile that didn't look overly stupid, managed out an, "I'll be right back," and got herself back to the elevator, upstairs, and into what was technically her own personal floor.

Though her instinctive reaction was to search the place to get to know where everything was, she knew she was on a pretty tight schedule and informing her fiancé that she got her case transferred (though she was starting to think that the Groverfeld murder was never hers to begin with, and instead used to conveniently get her in New York, which sounded like something Hamilton would do) and that he shouldn't expect her back in a week.

The phone only rang twice before he picked up. "_El_?"

"Hey," she said, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I don't have much time, so I have to say this quickly. I was just handed another job, and I think it's going to take a while."

There was a short silence. Then, "_You forgot Laura's getting married next Friday, didn't you_?"

Oh yeah, that was why she promised him she'd be back in week. "No," she answered, even though she totally had because it wasn't important enough on top of everything else to bring to her immediate attention. "I didn't have much choice, and Hamilton's currently with his wife and son in Hong Kong, so reaching him is kind of hard."

Even though she couldn't see his face, she knew he was annoyed. "_Just try to be back within the week if you can_," he told her.

Feeling guilty, she said, "I'm try. Really. I'm so sorry. Just…well, it's a murder case."

"_I get it. You said you had to make it quick, so I better let you go. Bye, El. I love you._"

"I love you too. I'm sorry about this."

"_Right_," he said, and the line clicked closed.

.

I guess review if you want, or if you feel like suggesting a pairing.


	2. Chapter 2

Hi, guys! Honestly, I almost scrapped this story until I checked my email and saw the number of watchers that I got. Turns out the number of reviews were pretty deceptive. But reviews are excellent motivators so...Yeah, it would be pretty awesome if you left something. Just sayin'.

Okay! Not that that's over and done with, disclaimer: only own Ariel and whatever is associated with her.

.

**Two. **

Fifty-year-old Frank Caraway lived in a north Jersey suburb forty minutes from the City with his second wife of fourteen years, a Louisiana woman named Katherine Caraway whom everyone called Kathy. Her influence showed, the lawn and garden more well kept than an aging scientist would do ever do on his own, though the weed whacker that lay at the end of the driveway showed that his son Michael, a twenty-year-old college student majoring in English lit much to the disappointment of his father, had been there at some point before his death. Instinctively, Ariel cataloged both Katherine and Michael Caraway as potential suspects before she reminded herself that the serial killer wasn't going to be a family member of any of the victims, or so she was told. At least she still got the chance to question them.

"I don't get why Agent Fury told you to come along," she said as she twisted back her dark brown hair, glad that it finally went past her shoulders so she could manage this. It used to be longer before the ends caught fire and she had to cut most of it off. "I've been doing this mostly alone for the past five years."

Stark shrugged. "To look for any evidence relating to his field, I'm assuming," he answered, putting the phone he'd been fiddling with back in his pocket. "You might have a degree in a similar specialty, but it's been a while, hasn't it?"

Though this was true, she doubted that anything would slip past her because she'd always had a good eye for evidence. From what she was told and had noticed herself since she first ended up in this bizarre situation, she had a feeling a lot of Stark's presence had to do with protection, too, even though she could clearly take care of herself. "Just don't touch anything," she said. "And put on those gloves."

"Perfectly aware of that, Watson," he said, following her inside.

As she searched the doorway for sign of forced entry, she asked, "Why am I Watson? Sherlock's the detective. Findings match that of the initial forensics team—the victim either opened the front door himself and let the killer in, or he came in a different way."

"You sound surprised."

"I don't trust any team I haven't worked with before. Watson?"

"Hm?" He looked up from the phone he was once again using and she turned away to check the stairs and railing. They'd been fingerprinted already, but all those found were identified and considered harmless. Not that she expected the killer to trip up with something that simple because the odds of a dumbass being declared a global threat were slim. "Oh, yeah. Watson fought in the Afghan War and could actually talk to people. So, Watson. If you prefer, the offer to call you Disney still stands."

She said, "What about Ariel or Novak like everyone else?" as she lead them up the stairs. "Trust me, I got Disney jokes all the time once I hit middle school. Somehow I went from a gender-argued Shakespeare character to a mermaid with a grass is always greener ideology. And—oh, yup. Bloodstain still there."

Stark didn't know the victim, she assumed, because it was in a completely apathetic way that he said, "Right on such a nice Persian rug too. Murderers are so messy."

Ariel went down on one knee to check the stain closer, and she'd been doing this enough to know from the spread alone that he'd been lying on his side, stabbed through the back and voice box before the murder weapon was removed. He'd been alive for at least a little while, too, because the spread showed obvious sign of movement. Also congruent with forensic's report. "Dealt with worse," she said, and sounded equally as uncaring. Normally it took more than five years for an FBI investigator to become this jaded, but she'd been a sniper in military and snipers, a lot of times, had the unfortunate ability of being able to see the faces of the men and women they shoot.

"So your parents were Shakespeare nuts?" Stark asked as her eyes settled on two bloody, size eleven male or size eight and half female footprints not far from where the body had been. There was only one set before it disappeared, and then it stopped. If the murder took off his shoes, there had to be at least a little drip towards his exit point.

As she moved closer to the footprints, she answered, "Name's Hebrew, that was just a coincidence. I don't think either of my parents ever touched a Shakespearean play." With the tips of her fingers, she brushed the marks and felt a very slight indentation, preserved by the dried blood. _That _hadn't been on the report. "Mr. Stark, get forensics on the phone. They missed something."

She stood and he tossed her his cell, which was already ringing. "JARVIS heard you," he said by way of explanation, and she remembered the AI. When she pressed it between her ear and shoulder, he added, "And Tony's fine. Mr. Stark makes me sound like my dad."

"Only if you call me Ariel," she said and the line clicked open. "Hey, this Agent Novak. I need to speak to Dr. Fiske."

"_This is he_," answered the man on the other end. "_Is there a discrepancy with my report already, Miss Novak_?"

Okay, so someone had connections. Except for in the team she normallyworked with, she had a reputation of being a bit of a bitch. But it wasn't her fault or theirs that the first unfamiliar forensic scientists she worked with almost made her case go unsolved because of the number of mistakes they made. If this wasn't classified, she'd do what she normally did and cross reference what could be seen from pictures and research alone with Doug and Linda back in Orlando.

"Maybe," she said. "The footprints on the rug you mentioned have permanently indented the rug. Not by much, but enough to show. Your report said that it took an estimated half hour from the victim to die, and the depth corresponds."

There was a moment of silence. Then, "_The killer watched._"

"That's what I'm thinking."

"_Every victim but one died on a rug. I'll send my team to do another sweep of the crime scenes._"

"Thanks, Dr.—" Something caught her eye and she knelt down again, running her finger tips over the edge. "Oh, fuck."

"_Excuse me_?"

Of course it had to be one of _those_ cases. Last one almost resulted with her getting knifed and, despite being able to take of herself and the insult of getting classified as a civilian, maybe staying in Avengers Tower wasn't such a bad idea. She said, "Check to see if anything's been moved. I just found indentations that are slightly deeper are off the original footprints."

"_Original—? Dear Lord, I'll warn my team. I'll email you the updated report by midnight, Agent._"

Before she hung up she added, "See if you can get an agent who can use a gun to go with your men." Then she hit the end button and stood again, handing the phone back to Stark. "I want to make this quick."

Though most of the apathy was still there, she could tell that Star—Tony was at least a little skived, and with reason. This just went from "sort of familiar classified serial case" to "sort of familiar _creepy_ classified serial case." He said, "The bastard came back," and there was no hint of a question.

She nodded. "Can I trust you not to do anything stupid?" she asked because Barton had given her a tablet with computerized files of the whole team before she left by order of Fury, which included a small amount of personality profiling.

"'Course," he said.

Her eyes scanned the living room for anything at surface value. "Search the lab on your own," she told him, not bothering with manners like she usually did at the moment because this was a murder case, dammit, and efficiency was necessary. From the lack of sarcastic remark, he understood it too. "You'll be able to tell if any information was stolen better than I can, anyway. And I probably don't need to say this, but stay on your guard. The deeper indents don't look like they were created in the last twenty-four hours, but precaution's a good thing. Let's just hope the victim has nothing touch screen."

Unfortunately, this is S.H.I.E.L.D., so he probably did, but Tony could probably get around it somehow. "If you finish before I do, meet me there."

They split and for the first time in a while, she wasn't looking forward to investigating on her own. She did another search of the rug and found nothing else noteworthy and stood, moving her attention to the closest thing: the bookshelf. One hand she had on her hip again, the other resting on her gun, safety clicked off just in case, and she checked for signs of disturbed dust or anything else that looked off. There were signs of DNA swabs, meaning she wasn't the only one who thought of this, but besides that, little else. Most of the books were classics, and didn't look like the family used them all that often.

She moved, inspecting the rest of the upstairs, and finding nothing. A quick search of the landing, though, uncovered the drop of blood she was looking for _right in front of the goddamn entrance door_, which meant the killer simply waltzed out of the house. Yet this happened in the middle of the day, and no one in the neighborhood claimed to have seen a stranger, meaning the killer either stayed in the house for a while longer (she didn't think this was the case since there was blood on his shoes) or figured out a way to blend in. Something told her the latter.

The downstairs was entirely untouched, again congruent with Dr. Fiske's report and it wasn't long after she finished that her phone went off. Caller ID read _Stark_.

"Found something, I'm taking it," she said.

"_Yeah_," he answered. "_Get up here, we stumbled across a bit of luck, if you want to be optimistic._"

As she headed back upstairs where the lab was located, she asked, "And that's supposed to mean…?"

"_He was trying to teach himself aerospace engineering_," he said, and hung up.

Two minutes later, Tony let her into a lab and every computer monitor held different images of mathematical equations and digital models that she studied nine years ago and that she had thankfully, like everything else in her life, remembered. "He's not good at the whole self-taught thing," she said, walking up to the nearest the monitor. "How're you controlling this?"

He held up his phone. "As long as I stand in front of a computer, it's all mine," he answered. "I noticed that too. Engineering's sort of my thing."

"So's everything else in the world."

"Well, you know, one of the perks of being awesome."

She ignored him, which in actuality was very difficult thing to do, especially since he was Tony Stark, the guy who dominated most of her research papers just because of the nature of her area of study and now that the embarrassment had gone away, it was pretty hard not to show it. But at the moment she was focused on the information in front of her. There were seven monitors in total (not including the model), and they seemed to be in chronological order since the math steadily got better. Hard as she tried, though, she couldn't find anything missing because most of the work was so wrong. On the bright side, if the killer really had stolen any of this, it would be completely useless, even by the end.

After she told this to Tony, he said, "I saw that too. Thought you should check it out though. Can't believe I'm saying this, but I can't figure out what he's trying to build."

Unfortunately the math was so badly executed that she couldn't tell either. "During the meeting I had, Director Fury mentioned that everyone who joined before May—I'm assuming he meant the Chitauri invasion or whatever Rogers called it earlier—had something to do with astrophysics, but none of the other victims had that on their file," she said. "You pulled up his older work, right?"

"Who do you mistake me for?" he said, collapsing the useless screens that hopefully he had downloaded. "Everything else was intact and there was no sign of anything getting hacked. That one guy was an engineer, though, right? Dr. Philip Markov?"

She nodded. "Nothing there about aerospace research, though. There's a definite possibility that they were working together, though there's also a chance that looking into this is completely useless and connections end with all being S.H.I.E.L.D. agents."

"But you don't think that."

"Nope."

"Neither do I." He locked the phone and put it back in his pocket. "All done? I want to get out of here, it's giving me the creeps."

It was freaking her out too, and she'd searched everything thoroughly, so she was perfectly okay with answering, "Yeah, let's get out of here. We'll organize with Fury to get a team to play watchdog."

They headed out, back into the car, and it wasn't until they were a few miles from the entire community that she started feeling safe again.

.

Later, after they got home because she couldn't look over any of the crime scenes until after the forensics team went another round, she sat in front one of the lab computers, going over the information Tony downloaded while she waits for an updated report. She had one leg crossed, the other pulled up to her chest, while she ate vegetable egg rice from a local Chinese place with crappy wooden chopsticks. With her contacts out and glasses on, she felt like a sixteen-year-old college student all over again, looking over her "friend's" homework for ten dollars a page back when she was living off take-out, salad, and coffee.

She had a blank notebook borrowed from Dr. Banner and box of sharpened pencil as she worked out the mathematic issues that the victim had to see if she could figure out what he was working on. Doing this on the computer would've been easier but for all she knows the murderer controlled technology or something (after the stuff she'd heard the others say, she wouldn't have been surprised) and she didn't know enough about what exactly this job entailed to risk it. So far she was having trouble because of the number of possibilities of what the victim was trying to create, and her only certainty was that he was definitely trying to achieve _something_. And with Tony's professional opinion backing her up, she wasn't exactly doubting her own suspicion.

As she clipped her hair back, aggravated with it constantly falling in her face, her cell phone rang. Caller ID told her it was Mark, and though they were never the sort of couple to talk every day if one way away for one reason or another, she knew she should've called him. Breaking her word basically made that mandatory.

"Hi, sweetie," she said, minimizing the window and opening her email just as the message from Fiske came through. The momentary darkness of the screen caught her reflection, turning her dark blue eyes black. "Sorry, I mean to get your earlier. "

"_It's fine, Ariel_," he answered and he rarely ever called her by her full name. "_Laura's wants to know if she can take you off the RSVP list. The pay-per-person is coming through soon, and I told her I'd check with you_."

Leaving him alone at his older sister's wedding, surrounded by his family and all their husbands and wives while his future wife was off living in a house with five men and only one other woman wasn't the best thing she'd ever done. Like any normal person, she felt bad, but unless she figured out how to time warp, there was nothing she could do about it. "I don't think I'll be able to make it," she said. "But I'm trying to finish this case as quick as I can, so hopefully I won't be gone for too long."

"_Okay._" There was the distinctive sound of the receiver getting pressed again cloth (presumably his shirt), followed by unintelligible murmurs. While he talked, she opened the new report, speed reading her way through it, which was a difficult thing to do with split attention. A moment later, sound came in clear again. Mark said, "_She wants you to know that she's sorry you can't make it. How's the case coming along_?"

Distracted as she read that she was right about something being moved in the houses of the first three victims, meaning either they missed something or the killer hadn't been back yet to the final crime scene, she told him, "Sorry, but I can't say anything. This is completely classified."

"_Classified? You're going to be safe, right, El_?"

She scrolled to the bottom to newest pictures, colored in to show the movement of each object, or marked indentation. "Yeah, this isn't dangerous at all," she lied. "Just classified, that's all." The door to the lab opened at the same time one picture came up with a note on it that read _do this have meaning to you_? "Look, Mark," she said glancing to the side and finding Dr. Banner about to leave again, so she shook her head, "I need to go. I love you."

When he answered, "_I love you too_," he sounded more irritated than disappointed and Ariel really did make a horrible fiancée. He hung up without goodbye, and the click of silence that was left made her feel empty.

Not wanting to let on how horrible she felt, she gave the scientist a smile and said, "I'm not invading your space or anything, am I?"

He shook his head. "I wanted to know if you needed help with anything. I'm sorry for interrupting you."

"Oh, not at all," she said. "I was getting off anyway. I got the updated report from Fiske a moment ago, and my fiancé understands that I want to finish this quickly to get back to Orlando. You can come here, you know."  
As he made his way towards her, he asked, "Fiancé? You're getting married?"

Again, she smiled and looked back at the computer screen. "I thought you guys hacked into my life," she said, trying to figure out why anyone would put a bowl of lemons on a rug, directly next to where a murdered body had been. If this was supposed to be some sort of metaphor, it was lost on her. "Does this mean anything to you, Dr. Banner?"

He leaned over her shoulder, looking at the picture in a similar way to how she did. "No," he answered. "This is from a crime scene?" She nodded. "Caraway's? Tony mentioned something about him having a Persian rug."

"Arleen Davenport had one too," she said, picking up her Chinese food again. It had gone cold, but she didn't care. "She died a week and a half ago, and this was moved after the first forensic investigation. According to Dr. Fiske's report, this was originally on the dining room table. The only fingerprints on it were hers. So this definitely has no significance to you?"

Again, he said, "No." Then, "Did he do something like this at every crime scene?"

Before answering his question, she said, "JARVIS, can you let the others know I'm sending them a picture? And also actually send the email because I don't know theirs please?"

"_Of course, Ms. Novak._"

Now that she had that out of the way, she twisted the chair around so she was facing Dr. Banner. "There was nothing else to this degree," she told him. "All other signs that he'd been back were little things—disturbed dust, a slightly moved chair in Davenport's house where he must have sat down as well as this. In Louis Sinclair's house there're signs that the bed had been slept in and a shower was taken, though he has no family or anyone who could've gone in. DNA testing on the area came up dry. And before you ask, yup, the victim _was _killed in his sleep."

Though she found this weird as fuck, five years taught her how to school that feeling and put it away until after the case was solved and she could deal with it on her own. Banner, on the other hand, looked a little sick and considering that he turned into a giant green rage guy whenever he got mad, she found this a little ironic. She added, "What I can't figure out is why someone would go back just to move a bowl of lemons from—Hold on."

"What?"

She had the original files on the table next to her, still in its manila folder. She picked it up and flipped to the Davenport report, turning the folder sideways so she could take a better look at the horizontal picture. It was an overhead shot of the dining room table, important because the victim had grabbed onto the corner of it after getting stabbed (hers had definitely been the messiest, probably because she'd been able to take a few shots at the guy that never connected with anything other than the wall) and in the middle was the bowl of lemons. Because of the angle and since the bowl was made of glass, she was able to count six in total, though there was a possibility that another was hiding at the bottom.

Looking back at the computer screen, she saw that the new picture was taken a similar angle and recounted. At the same time the door slid opened, she said, "Who bothers to steal a _lemon_?" which was quickly followed up by Tony's, "Wait—what?"

Without saying anything, she handed him the folder and Dr. Banner, Barton, and Romanoff (who came in with him) crowded around. After a moment of watching the four of them look back and forth, Romanoff said, "So this killer really stole a lemon. That's…Well, I got to say, this guy's getting weirder."

"Understatement of the month, Nat," Tony said, handing Ariel back the file. "I'd say year, but, you know, saying space whales aren't a party takes that title." Romanoff hit him and Barton snickered and Ariel felt horribly left out of everything again. What the fuck were space whales? "Anyway, so he's been back to all the crime scenes?"

"Not Philip Markov," she answered, "but the others. I was just telling this to Dr. Banner, Tony, but—"

Barton cut her off with, "Why does he get to be Tony and the rest of us get the surname treatment?"

She blinked. "It was our agreement so he stopped calling me Watson. You called me Novak so I assumed—Do you want me not to?"

"Well, you're part of the team for the next however long, right?" Tony said and she nodded. "See, so there. Anyway, what were you telling Bruce?"

"Oh, right, that," she said, wondering why she was so surprised, and told them about the rest of the evidence that the killer had returned to the crime scenes. After she finished, she asked, "So, does the bowl of lemons mean anything to you guys?" And, just because it seemed like the entire case was starting off this way, they had a negative response. "Awesome. What about Rog—Steve? Or Thor?"

"I'm not even sure if Thor knows what a lemon is," Barton (or Clint, whatever) answered, "and Steve's been here six months and still acts like a lost puppy, so I doubt it. Does anyone know where he is anyway?"

Natasha shrugged and Bruce said, "I think he's sleeping. He's pretty normal when it comes to that and he was up last night, remember?"

Deciding to trust their word for now, but planning on asking Steve tomorrow anyway, she emailed back Fiske to let him know that it meant nothing to them. "I want to check out Markov's house tomorrow," she said. "There's a team stationed there and it seems like a good idea to get there before the killer does. Tony, mind coming with me again?"

"Engineer guy?" She nodded. "On it, Watson."

"Stark."

"Fine, _Ariel_. You know, your name's practically a nickname already."

As she resisted the urge to roll her eyes, Natasha leaned against the table and said, "Not sure if you've heard, but Tony's borderline useless outside of his suit—"

"_Who_ build that specific weapon you use?"

"—so you should probably bring someone else along too," she finished.

Ariel raised a brow. "You do realize I was a First Sergeant before I left, right? I can use a gun with actual training." In truth, she was okay with having someone come along with; it was getting treated like she was useless that she had a problem with. There weren't many women in the American army and she understood that her situation was weird enough to begin with, but she was competent, both with a gun and solving murders and there was a reason Fury picked her. During her four years of service before she was medically discharged, she dealt with enough bullshit from the male soldiers. She added, "But, getting that out of the way, I want to start early, if that means anything. And I want someone who won't bring more attention to the scene than we'd already be attracting."

"Not me, then," Clint said. "I can get Lemon Bowl, though. Davenport lived in Sussex, right? Like, farm country? Never understood why a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent would do that, but whatever."

"Right."

They made plans for the next day, that Natasha would accompany her and Tony to the first crime scene and Clint for the second and third and it wasn't until an hour later that Ariel realized she'd never finished her dinner.

.

Sorry for the inevitable spelling mistakes. Review, please?


	3. Chapter 3

So, for the record, I'm not just bullshitting my way through this story (I had someone ask). I've got all the important stuff planned out.

Disclaimer: only own Ariel and anything associated her.

.

**Three.**

One great thing about being part of the Avengers rather than a normal FBI agent was that she didn't need to always wear business clothes. In fact, she was basically told not to. And while showing up at a crime scene in denim shorts and a loose brown camisole made her feel out of place and uncomfortable, it was one of the weird ninety-seven degrees September days. Having a naturally low body temperature made her _really_ hate heat. Even Tony, whom she'd never seen wearing anything other than either a suit or jeans and long shirt, had succumbed to the weather by wearing short sleeves, and Natasha was dressed like a normal person without a jacket.

Basically, it kind of sucked.

"Inside there's going to smell rancid, isn't it?" he said as they walked towards the door of yet another suburban house. The night before Clint had mentioned how he couldn't understand why a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent would live in farm land, but Ariel understood this even less. And to make it worse, it was a cul-de-sac. Cul-de-sacs were practically cults.

"Unfortunately," she answered, not looking forward to it either, and pushed the door open. The gloves were overheating her hands. "I live in Florida, this is nothing."

"Orlando, right? Inland?" Natasha said, and she nodded, inspecting the inside of the door same as last time and discovering nothing. "I know what you mean."

After that uselessness, she felt safe enough to say that it wasn't a break in, which was congruent with the forensic report. Maybe they weren't so bad after all. "I had a murder in the Everglades once," she said as they trailed after her upstairs, Tony playing on his cell phone. "Also, I want to make this quick again so we can check out the other houses. Lab?"

"On it," he said. "Wait—Markov didn't die _in _the lab, right? Because I'm really not in mood to stick around in a stuffy room with some dead guy's odor particles."

"Died in the office," she answered, doing a surface glance search of the living room before actually taking it. "Hey, Natasha, since he's currently weaponless and I have a gun on me, do you mind going with him?"

Though the woman was obviously against it, she agreed and the two went dutifully off, Tony following the floor plan through his phone. Again, the house made her wary, but at least it was small, an entire portion taken up just for the lab alone and besides the footprints on the rug, same as before, that forensics put everything she saw on their updated report. The bloodlessness of the carpeted indents meant he learned since the first incident (expect for the whole killing carpets thing). Like always, it was irritating that the killer left no definable clues, but odds were that moving the lemon bowl and coming back were taunting methods, and he'd slip up sooner or later.

They always did.

Or at least that was what she assumed until she headed to the ground-level basement (discovering nothing of interest on the stairs) to find a rather dumbfounded S.H.I.E.L.D. agent standing right inside a shut glass door, pointing a gun at the refrigerator door. Without needing to think about it, she froze, pulling own out and holding it at line with his head. At the sound of the safety clicking off, he jumped, moving the position to face her, eyes wide. He looked young, anywhere from eighteen to twenty-one, so she was guessing a relatively new recruit.

"Are you the detective?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered, pulling out her S.H.I.E.L.D. ID in front of herself to show him. He scrambled for him own and since he looked away, she knew she was right about how the whole recruit thing. Though why anyone would put a recruit guarding a house that a murderer was going to try and break into was a mystery, but this wasn't her place to judge. "Put down the gun," she said, seeing the ID's hologram stamp flash in the half light from here. He followed orders and after a moment, she did the same, realizing that even though she'd only been here for three days, she counted as his higher-up. Once she felt he was no longer a threat, she added, "What're you doing inside?"

"I saw an outline of a person," he said, practically stammering and there was still baby fat on his cheeks, so definitely eighteen or nineteen. She'd always had a soft spot for the young ones. "Right over there, by the mini-fridge. It looked taller than five six and not a girl, so I came in and shut to door behind me to stop any bugs from getting in and—"

"Where'd it go?" she asked, because this guy was taking way too long to get to the point. "Did you see?"

"Just disappeared," he said. "There then gone. I know it sounds crazy, but—"

Though she felt bad interrupting the kid again, she pulled her cell phone to her pocket and told Siri to call Natasha. "What happened?" the other woman said, picking up before the first ring could even end.

"So, 'global threat' means not necessarily human, right?" she said, and motioned for the recruit to go outside because he held his gun sloppily and she didn't want to take any chances. He listened without argument, shutting the door behind him.

"_Yes._"

"Okay, then under the assumption the killer can teleport or something, there's a possibility you're getting company."

"_I've got the upstairs covered. Giving Tony a spare handgun._"

The line disconnected, and she hadn't been alone in a danger zone in a good two and half years. Mark's _You're going to be safe, right, El?_ flashed through her mind and except for the bathroom, the basement was just one open space. There was a television raised a little and pressed flush against the wall, a counter with a mini-fridge, two chairs and a wooden trunk used as a coffee table. If there had been a way to contact Natasha without making sound, that would've been awesome, and hopefully that freaked out agent had warned the other outside guards. And hopefully they weren't all recruits.

She nudged open the door with her foot, hoping the killer wasn't invisible or something and sneaking behind her. Inside she discovered it was a half-bath, no shower or anything and the sink had visible pipes, not cabinet or similar underneath, window too narrow and short for anybody over the age of five (but, honestly, she didn't fully know what she was doing, so it was a possibility) to get through, and the door pressed solid against the wall, so no one could be behind that either. She backed up, turning around and expect something, but finding only emptiness, before heading back over to the mini-fridge.

Though she felt much too vulnerable, she pulled the door open, making a mental note to call forensics later. When she found what was inside, she rolled her eyes despite knowing that she should be worrying at least a little more and snapped a picture, sending it to Fiske, Tony, and Natasha. A moment later her phone vibrated.

"_What's with this guy and lemons_?" Tony said as she stood. "_I mean, people are freaks, but citrus isn't exactly menacing. Now, if he used nuts or something, that would at least make sense. I can appreciate a guy with a little bit of humor_."

Despite herself, she managed a small smile. "I'm taking it you haven't gotten anything?" she said.

"_Not teleportation invisa-man or anything_," he answered, "_but I downloaded all his research. Oh, and Ritcher—he's guard captain or whatever you'd call it—says he's searching the outside and neighborhood. Sending a few men in too. Did you really have a recruit point a gun at you_?"

Oh, naturally Mr. Nervous had to babble. "Mhm," she answered. "I'm going upstairs to help Natasha. Nothing down here. Stick to the lab."

"_You're no fun_," he said, but hung up anyway, which hopefully meant he agreed. According to the profiling she read yesterday, he wasn't good at following orders. Though, she didn't really think she could legally order him around anyway.

At the landing she ran into several S.H.I.E.L.D. agents coming in, and after a few exchanged words, four went downstairs and five up to cover every room. Tony and Natasha (who was scowling with something that looked remarkably like disappointment) met her in the living room, standing off of the rug.

"I'm contacting Fury to ask him what he was doing assigning a recruit," she said, arms crossed. "For all we know, he was jumpy and _thought _he saw something."

Tony said, "I've seen the blueprints of the house. Only way he could've seen the outline was at an angle that could've casted his own shadow inside."

For once, she didn't have a definite suspicion one way or the other because while the lemon was in there, she knew from the report from the forensics team that no one bothered to look inside anywhere. Any faith she'd had in them an hour prior disappeared. "Let's just get out of here," she said. "Fiske will want to kill me after this."

They left, and after Natasha called Fury to freak out at him in a way that could almost be called professionally respectful, she followed through with her promise and considering that she had to force him to shut down that God-awful, superior personality of his, she didn't think they'd ever be able to have a friendly conversation again.

.

"Is that a _tire _swing?" Clint said when they got out of the car, giving a wave to the agents gathered around the house, who looked rather shocked at his lack of caring. Either that, or because it was guy in cargo shorts and a t-shirt with a bow and quiver. "Damn, tire swing under an apple tree—Classic."

"Yeah, now all we need is Coke out of a glass bottle and the image is complete," she said, and they entered through the side door, as forensics and the original people on the scene had kept it locked. Unlike the other houses where someone else physically opened the front door and found the body, Davenport had been discovered by the caretaker, who only entered and left through the garden. And, just because Clint looked so please about the whole tire swing thing (he was from small town Iowa, she remembered from the file, so there was chance he had one as a kid), she added, "My dad's house had one. Never been there, but was a picture on their bedroom wall when we lived in New York."

The house smelled just as bad as the last one, if not worse. Dead-body odor particles were mixed with the odor particles of those leaf things that people puts in bowls, and it was so strong that she picked up on it from a room away. And her smell was her weakest sense, too, and from the look on Clint's face, she guessed it was worse for him. "You're Czech, right?" he said, and after the quick by thorough inspection of the small area which naturally (and expectantly by this point) revealed nothing, they entered the room of the murder scene.

As usual, the pictures hadn't really represented how large the blood stains were. Unlike the other murders, where it seemed like the victim had struggled in place, most likely because of the breathing restriction on top of actual cause of death, this time the victim's blood was _everywhere. _"Mhm," she answered, going straight for the lemon bowl in the middle. "I was born in New York, though. Lexon Hill. With a last name like Barton, are you Irish-American or English-American?"

Forensics had left the lemon bowl intact for her, doing only a finger print swab of the top two and actually glass. She, on the other hand, could actually more things around. "Both," he answered. "I'm fourth generation or something, though. What's with you and Fiske or whatever his name is?"

On the bottom most lemon, she found what looked like white powder. Taking out her phone, she snapped a picture and stood, sharpening the image before sending if off, because despite her well-placed (and admittedly a little paranoid) mistrust, the forensic team was the only one she had access to. "I've caught two mistakes of his—well, theirs," she said and moment later a text came back. _Looks like talcum powder, I'm sending a few over to collect the evidence now_. After sending back an okay, she continued, "It's not specific to just them or anything. Unfortunately, they're necessary. And if you haven't noticed, I'm difficult to work with. Problems with being a perfectionist. I can follow orders, do what my superiors tell me to, but I suck at letting a mishap or two slide."

"You're cooperating with us."

"Yeah, well, I'm trusting you guys not to fuck up, even if you did call me useless," she said. "That's a compliment, by the way."

"I figured. What did you find?"

She stood. "Talcum powder," she answered, "like what's in a Latex glove. If I'm right, and that's what it is, it means he took off a glove for some reason. Has to be a fingerprint around here somewhere."

While she knew that none of the Avengers had ever done an investigation themselves, she was starting to get the feels they'd never been involved with her side of a murder either, for whatever reason. And though she knew it had nothing to do with competitiveness of anything, she felt so much like an outsider that it was sort of nice to be able to do something none of them could. Even if thinking that did make her feel like a terrible person.

Clint said, "I thought it was possible to leave a print even through a latex or vinyl glove or something like that."

"I've heard about that," she said as she finished inspecting the rug, going onto everything else in the room, and she was half expecting to find someone else having a freak out run in because that was how her luck went. "Never saw it myself, though, and I don't know anyone who has. Anyway, do you—?"

She was cut off by her cell phone vibrating in her pocket. Though she expected into to Fiske, another member of forensics, or Tony with updates on the connection, the caller ID read _Laura_. She felt bad silencing the woman whose wedding she was skipping out on, so she put it back instead, letting it go to voicemail. To Clint's unvoiced question, she answered, "My future sister-in-law."

"You're getting married?"

Pausing, she turned around, confused. "Okay, so Bruce said that too," she said. "I thought you guys looked me up."

"It didn't mention it anywhere."

That made sense, she supposed. Her not-yet-marital status wasn't on her file, it was never announced to the paper or anything (did people other than celebrities still do that?), and even if they'd hacked her financial record, she hadn't bought anything relating to the wedding yet. "We're getting married in April," she said, and resumed her search of the room. For some reason this conversation was making her really uncomfortable, even if she logically knew that having a fiancé wasn't really a bad thing. "I get off two days for religious reasons already, and my boss agreed to extend it a week. It'll be pretty awkward having the bride and her parents unable to eat the cake, but whatever."

Despite the discomfort of their talk, she preferred it to silence at the moment. The place was creeping her out, and considering that she'd investigated in places a lot worse than a farm house with an awesome tire swing, that was saying something. So she was perfectly okay when Clint pointed out, "You can get a cake without wheat, or just have pudding and ice cream or something like that."

"For three people?" she answered, and neglected to mention that she hadn't felt like getting into a fight over it. "Besides, it's inconvenient. It's not like I'm having a Jewish wedding. Mark grew up with no religious affiliation and mine was a little eh too, so it's easier to follow the majority, you know?"

"I guess," he said, and sounded about as skeptical as her friends. It was pretty common knowledge that in America, the bride's parents pay for the wedding, and for some reason no one understood her logic of the majority. Her only problem with it was that it was too formal. "Um, wasn't there supposed to be a bloody handprint over there?"

They'd moved to the dining room, which was adjacent from the basement common area, and though it normally annoyed her when people pointed out the obvious, this deserved it. She snapped a picture, sending it to Fiske even if she knew that his team would discover it on their own anyway, and the removal was done fresh. Done with rubbing alcohol, she was assuming, and forensics had been here a little under twenty-four hours ago, and the place was surrounded by guards.

Suddenly, the idea of the recruit's mysterious outline being an actual person didn't seem so farfetched. Clint had an arrow knocked to his bow and his cell phone pressed between his shoulder and ear.

"Wagner, get people inside the house once we leave, but don't touch anything. Pass on the message to Ritcher, Lantos, and Pfaff. Tell them to get the people in now. Thanks."

She looked over to the wall where the bullet where supposed to be, and was relieved to find them still there, all three. Then it clicked.

"Hey, Clint," she said, "where do you think the victim would've kept cleaning supplies?"

"Closet near the bathroom," he answered immediately. "Standard place in a country home. If not, I'm guessing another room downstairs since Davenport had a maid."

Even though she didn't like the idea of leaving a room without finishing a search, whoever Fiske was sending was already on their way and she wanted to get this without them.

Clint was right, it turned out, and all the cleaning supplies were stacked neatly on the top shelf of the closet next to the bathroom. There was a package of cleaning wipes placed precariously on the edge and the box of gloves shoved back far enough that someone shorter than about five eight must've gone on tiptoe and pushed it to get it to stay. She backed up to take the picture, basically repeating what the killer needed to have done. When she couldn't get a good one, she handed her phone off to Clint to do it for her. Then she sent that to Fiske too.

"Want me to get that down for you?" he asked, and she nodded. A moment later it was in her hands and he added, "Would've been easier for him to throw it out."

The box was empty, and there was the smallest bit of rubber from one of the gloves stuck to the ridged edge where the flap had been opened long before the victim was murdered. Either it was from the new one, which explained the talcum powder on the lemon as if he hadn't taken one off, or was from the old one, which could lend to a possible chance of DNA. At the same moment, Clint cell phone rang, Wagner calling to let him know the forensics were entering. He was sending his men in too.

"Should we stick around?" he said as she adjusted her hold on the box and they headed over to meet with forensics.

"No," she answered. "I want to get to Sinclair's house before he can destroy any more evidence." When they reached the four scientists sent, she handed it over, wary but knowing that while they might've missed a few things, they wouldn't fuck up the evidence found. "A gloved snagged on the side, might be able to get a DNA sample," she said, even though the latter part was already implied. "And actually open things. You might find something worthwhile."

Thankfully they didn't seem to have the same animosity to her that their boss did, because the one of the left said, "Okay, we'll contact you as soon as we're done," in a tone that meant he was perfectly fine with her. "Dr. Fiske wants you to know that there's a team on standby at Sinclair's house, but they won't enter until you get there."

"Thanks," she said. "I'll talk to you later."

She and Clint left, and she was just glad to be out of the house. The thing was that she wasn't under the assumption that everyone was incompetent, especially the guards. Forensics was technically independent of S.H.I.E.L.D., but despite a jumpy recruit here or there, she didn't think Fury would place people who didn't know that they were doing in an area of high security. Needless to say, the fact that the killer was reentering the house with about twenty guards surrounding it made catching him seem a hundred times harder.

.

Review, please?


End file.
